


"The Stolen Heart" by Varric Tethras

by Sheeana



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Banter, Epistolary Elements, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:42:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27152641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheeana/pseuds/Sheeana
Summary: "Well, shit."The Viscount and the Champion: a tale in three parts.
Relationships: Male Hawke/Varric Tethras
Comments: 13
Kudos: 57
Collections: Shipoween 2020 - The Halloween Ship Exchange!





	"The Stolen Heart" by Varric Tethras

**Author's Note:**

  * For [greygerbil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greygerbil/gifts).



\---

**Act 1: Kirkwall**

\---

"Serah Tethras," Varric read aloud, eyebrows raised, "May I express my admiration of your form. I could gaze all day into the golden depths of your eyes. I pleasure myself to the thought of the succulence of your lips. My every night is spent dreaming of running my fingers through your thick, luxurious chest hair."

He set the letter down. "Well, Hawke, I don't know what to say."

Hawke, who was examining one of the dwarven carvings on the wall in Varric's room at the Hanged Man, didn't turn around, but he chuckled. The low, warm sound was enough to send Varric's stomach flipping in an uncomfortable way. He should have known better than to entertain Hawke alone, in private, at night. No one in their right mind would ever mistake Varric for having good sense in his romantic entanglements. If 'idly playing a game of flirting chicken with your best friend' could be called an 'entanglement'.

"Don't worry," said Hawke, "You don't need to say a thing. Your silent appreciation of my eloquent prose is more than enough for me."

"'Eloquent' may be a little too generous."

Hawke placed both hands over his heart and pretended to swoon. "You wound me, serah."

"You're a resilient man. I'm sure you'll get over it. Besides, you know it would never work between us."

"Oh? And here I was, already planning the wedding. Red roses would be a nice touch, wouldn't they?"

"You spend half your time traipsing around the wilderness outside Kirkwall. I don't have the constitution for that. And we've had this conversation before. You know that humans don't really do it for me. No offense intended, of course. I'm sure you're considered very handsome among your people. Or are you hoping to charm your way past my defenses and into my lonely heart?"

"You know me too well." Hawke scrubbed his hand over his neatly-trimmed beard and flashed Varric the most roguish of smirks. Maker's breath, the man knew how to put on a show. Varric swallowed and tried to keep a straight face, a task that was becoming increasingly arduous as Hawke took this little game of theirs to ever more ludicrous levels.

"You'll have to work harder than that, Hawke. Don't insult me," he said.

"Your wish is my command." Hawke swept into a dramatic bow. "I'll see you tomorrow morning, bright and early? Elegant had that job for us in Darktown. I wouldn't wear your finest boots for this one."

"Darktown. Just where I wanted to go right after breakfast."

"And back in time for lunch, I hope."

Varric shuddered at any association between the words 'eating' and 'Darktown'. "Only if there's a bath involved, first."

"Together?"

"Now, now, Hawke. Don't be in such a rush to get my clothes off."

"How else will I ever run my fingers through your luxurious chest hair?" Hawke was still wearing that same smirk as he backed out of Varric's room, pulling the door shut behind him before Varric could answer.

There was a long moment of silence, broken only by the crackling of the fireplace.

"Well, shit," Varric said finally. He dropped his head into his hands and rubbed at his temples. It did nothing to cool his head – or his groin, where all the heat in his body had seemed to decide to pool at once.

He glanced at the letter Hawke had written, discarded on the table. 

Against nearly all of his better judgment, he took up his pen, dipped it into the inkwell, and set it to paper.

\---

_Serah Hawke,_

_In response to your previous correspondence, please find enclosed the first chapter of my new serial, 'The Stolen Heart'._

_I'm sure you'll appreciate the eloquence of my prose._

_-VT_

__

\---

"'Then allow me to ease your tension, serah,' said Lord Gareth, as he placed his hand on the rogue's thigh. His broad, calloused fingers inched upward beneath the table. Heated desire simmered in the depth of Vance's eyes as he met Gareth's fervent, impassioned gaze," Hawke read aloud.

"Ooh, read the next part," said Isabela, peering down over Hawke's shoulder at the page. "I want to know what else Lord Gareth did with his fingers."

"Oh, does it get even dirtier?" asked Merrill. "Varric, do you always write dirty books? I should've been reading them, then. I always thought they were about human things I wouldn't understand, like socks and indoor baths."

"Merrill," Aveline sighed.

"Yes, Aveline?"

"Never mind. It's your turn, Fenris."

"I fold."

"I knew you were bluffing! I win again, then," said Isabela. She set her cards down on the table, splaying them out triumphantly. "Another round?"

"If anyone has anything left to bet," muttered Anders, as Isabela scooped her winnings into her coin purse.

"Well, I'm in." Varric set two gold coins down in the center of the table. "Hawke?"

"Why not? I'm excited to see just how much gold I can lose in a single evening."

"You do have a _singular_ talent for losing," Isabela said. She patted Hawke on the back as he feigned sadness. "I'd feel sorry for you if I weren't so impressed."

"You do know she's been cheating all night?" said Sebastian. He eyed Hawke's show of hurt feelings with a skeptical frown.

"Cheating? At _our_ game of Wicked Grace? Maker, perish the thought," said Varric, chuckling. "Your turn, by the way, Choir Boy."

"You drew two cards!"

"Did I?" Varric held up his hand to show he was holding the correct number of cards for his current hand. The extra one he'd drawn was already concealed up his sleeve. "I don't see it anywhere. Did anyone else see me draw two cards?"

"I didn't see anything," said Hawke. The effect of the innocent look he plastered onto his face was somewhat ruined by the conspiratorial wink he gave Varric.

Sighing, Sebastian took his turn. Varric managed to keep a straight face, and said nothing, but his eyes were fast enough to catch the precise moment when Sebastian deftly drew and discarded a second card. It passed next to Isabela. Her cheating was usually beyond even Varric's ability to perceive. Then it went to Aveline, who folded, and then Merrill, who bet all of her scant remaining coin. 

By the time it had come back around to Hawke, the pile in the center of the table had grown considerably, though more silver and copper glinted in the flickering light cast from the fireplace than gold. For his part, Hawke set down two gold coins and leaned back, smirking.

"Are you sure about that, Hawke?" Varric said. "Going all in so early in the evening! What if you run out of things to bargain with?"

"I'm sure I can think of something, should the need arise."

"I'm sure you can, too." Varric's eyes flicked up and down Hawke's body in a very obvious, playful way. "Still, you'd better be careful. That's an awfully cocky look for someone who's about to lose." He set his cards down, faces up. "Better luck next time."

"Now who's been cheating?" Isabela sighed and pushed the coins across the table toward Varric.

As Hawke reached out to help Varric collect his winnings, his knuckles brushed against Varric's hand, seemingly deliberately. Their eyes met. Hawke gave him a lazy but confident half-smile, one corner of his mouth quirking upward. 

_Shit,_ was Varric's first thought, and a familiar one by now. His stomach did that uncomfortable flopping thing. He was going to need to think of a better way to describe it than that, for his book. Maker, was he really going to put this in a book? For public consumption? No; they didn't need to know about Hawke's ability to get under his biographer's skin with a single heated glance.

"... spend it all at once," Hawke was joking. Varric blinked, brought back to the present by Hawke's expectant gaze. Expectant, and maybe slightly _knowing_. Varric cleared his throat and looked away.

"Not everyone loses money as fast as you do, Hawke," said Isabela.

"Not everyone gains money as fast as he does, either," Varric said, rejoining the banter as he found his equilibrium. And as Hawke's attention turned somewhere else. If he didn't know better, he'd think this whole thing was just a ploy for Hawke to distract them all into losing at cards. 

They played another four rounds after that. Fenris took the first, Sebastian the second. Varric won the third and nearly the fourth, too, but Hawke surprised them all with a decent hand, for once. After gathering his (at that point in the evening, meager) winnings, Hawke stood up, stretching his arms.

"Well, it's time for me to go. Mother and Bodahn will fuss if I stay out past my bedtime again," he said. He shouldered his pack and retrieved his staff from where he'd set it against the wall. 

"Your 'bedtime'? You spend half your nights terrorizing the city streets until the sun comes up again," said Isabela. 

"Good night, Isabela," Hawke said firmly. He raised a hand to the rest of them. "I'll see you all next week, or sooner, if I'm lucky. Or if I'm very _un_ lucky."

Varric watched Hawke go. He couldn't _not_ watch Hawke go. His eyes were drawn to him, a magnetic sort of pull. Like one of Hawke's spells, drawing everything in to a single point. That single point currently happened to be Hawke's hips, but the principle was the same.

Shit, shit, shit.

\---

"Hawke-!" Varric cried out a warning as an arrow whizzed past him.

Hawke pivoted just in time for the arrow to miss its target and bury itself harmlessly in the dirt behind him. He flashed Varric a grin before his staff was whirling around him again, crackling with lightning. Nearly four years of fighting side-by-side, and they'd all learned to work together, to move together, to heed each other's warnings.

At least, most of them had. Varric liked to think of himself as the dependable member of the team. Tried and true, predictable, providing timely arrows wherever they were most needed. Hawke, on the other hand, seemed perpetually intent on frustrating not only his opponents' intentions but also his friends' expectations. One moment he would be at Varric's side, wielding his staff; the next he would be charging straight into the fray, lifting men into the air and flinging them aside with a flick of his wrist, only to turn around and find someone bearing down upon him while he'd been distracted. Then it was usually down to Aveline to rescue him from his own folly. (Or Carver, but Varric tried not to think about that too much. Hawke still didn't like to talk about it.)

At least Hawke had finally learned to dodge. Most of the time.

Another arrow soared past, this one barely missing Varric's arm. He turned to locate the archer who had fired it and cursed as the sun momentarily blinded him. The Wounded Coast at midday would not have been his first choice for a showdown with the group of bandits they'd been tracking.

By the time he'd cleared his vision and fished a few crossbow bolts out of his pouch, it was too late. A pair of rather unkempt-looking men in mismatched leather armor were already bearing down on him. He leaped back, putting space between them, but he'd never been good in a close-quarters fight.

"Allow me," said Hawke, as he stepped in. His staff swept in an elegant half-circle, ice spraying from the tip. The men it struck were knocked back, one freezing in place. 

Sensing an opening, Varric nocked a bolt in Bianca. This kind came with a particularly nasty little contraption of his own design. It was filled with shrapnel and a noxious liquid, designed to explode on impact, at which point it would shower the surroundings with tiny bits of sharp metal, fire, and smoke. He tended to avoid using it when anyone he liked was within range. Hawke had the good sense, and the familiarity with Varric's preferred weaponry, to jump back and out of the way.

The bolt performed exactly as intended as it found its target. It burst as it buried itself in a bandit's shoulder. They all fell about coughing and spluttering and groaning, disoriented and ripe for picking off one by one.

"See how well we work together?" said Hawke. He fell back in beside Varric, standing back-to-back as Aveline and Isabela together dealt with the last of the bandits.

"We'd work even better if we weren't out here in the middle of nowhere," Varric replied. "Do you have something against taking jobs in Kirkwall? Where we can brawl in the back alleys like civilized people?"

"This one paid better."

"There was no one else you could have invited to come along? What about Daisy? She likes nature."

"And miss out on the pleasure of your fine company? How would I ever recover?"

"I'll give you that."

"How about this," said Hawke, as he bent down to check the pockets of one of their fallen foes, "Next time, you pick the job, and I'll tag along as the muscle."

Varric gave Hawke a skeptical, appraising look. "The muscle?"

In response, Hawke lifted his arm and flexed it. In the early fall heat, he'd worn his old sleeveless combat leathers. His muscles tensed and bulged. Varric let his eyes linger on Hawke's biceps appreciatively, but then laughed and shook his head. 

Hawke had already dropped the pose and crouched to examine another of their targets. "You can continue anytime you like, you know," he said, as he fished about in a belt pouch. "You were saying, about my muscles?"

"You don't need me to tell you how handsome you are, Hawke."

"No, but I'd appreciate it all the same."

"All right, come by the Hanged Man tonight. I'll write you a letter about it."

"I knew you cared. And would you look at that, I found the statue we were looking for." Hawke straightened and held up a small brass figurine.

"What _is_ that?" Varric asked. He tilted his head to the side, trying to make something of it. It was vaguely man-shaped, in a grotesque, unpleasant sort of way. Looking at it too long made his eyes hurt. He averted them as Hawke folded it in cloth.

"Tomwise didn't say what it was, just that Lord Such-And-Such was willing to pay handsomely for its safe return."

"Will Lord-Such-And-Such also be reimbursing us for our personal hardships?" 

"I don't know, would you like me to ask?"

"It's going to take days to get all of this sand out of my boots. He should at least have the decency to replace them, after all this trouble we went through to get his, ah." He cleared his throat. "'Art' back."

"Anything for you, my fine dwarven friend." Hawke made a show of tipping a non-existent hat, in the manner of a self-important Orlesian nobleman.

Chuckling, Varric finished checking the bodies for anything useful and went to rejoin the others, Hawke trailing behind.

\---

The Viscount's Keep was bustling with activity that afternoon. The Viscount's Keep bustled with activity every afternoon. Disgruntled nobles on their way to and from the Viscount's office. Servants and other staff scurrying about, trying in vain to keep all of the many surfaces free of dust. Guardsmen and guardswomen going out and returning from patrol. Never a dull moment, and yet every moment of it seemed dull.

Hawke was heading down the stairs to the guards' quarters. Varric hurried after him, eternally cursing Hawke's long human legs. When he wasn't admiring them. Discreetly, of course.

"Hawke," Aveline said warmly, when they reached her office. Varric tried to catch himself on the door frame and keep his heavy breathing as controlled as possible until it evened out again. He left the talking to Hawke. Sometimes _leaving the talking to Hawke_ was essentially the equivalent of gambling with the lives of everyone in the immediate vicinity, but it seemed safe enough right now. It was only Aveline.

"You sent a message about a job for me?" said Hawke.

"That was three days ago."

"I'm a busy man."

At last, Varric had managed to catch his breath and compose himself. He straightened his knees and glanced at Hawke while Aveline sighed and started explaining what she wanted him to do.

Their eyes met. Hawke wet his lips; Varric raised his eyebrows, but it was a challenge, not an expression of skepticism. Hawke smirked and ran his thumb across the edge of his jaw, along his beard. Varric feigned that he was reaching for something in his belt, his hand trailing across his chest and the gap in his shirt.

"Are either of you listening at all?" Aveline said, sighing again.

"Of course we are," said Varric. He dropped his hands back to his sides and gave her the most innocent of innocent looks, completely guileless and faintly insulted. "Why, the very insinuation that I would be anything less than completely attentive is hurtful, Aveline."

"I'm sure it is," she said dryly. "Hawke?"

"Yes?"

"Were _you_ listening any better about the job I was telling you about? If you say no, I'm hiring the first pair of idiots I find on the street outside the Keep, and paying them double what I would have paid you."

"Go to the clandestine location, kill the bad people, bring back whatever has gone missing, claim the reward," Hawke said, rattling it off as casual as could be. "So, what will it be today? The sewers? Sundermount? A warehouse at the docks? That could be fun. We haven't had a job there in a while."

"Hightown," Aveline said, "And you'd better not kill anyone, or I'll have a lot to answer to the Viscount. All I need you to do is pay Lord Kensley a visit and ask him some polite questions about the bribes he's been receiving from the Gallows. I'd send my guards, but this is the sort of thing you always seem to handle best."

"Miraculous though it may be," Hawke finished for her, wryly self-deprecating.

" _Hawke_."

"I'll behave myself, don't worry," he said, hand over his heart. "You can count on my utmost discretion."

\---

Several hours and a considerable amount of shouting and dodging and frantically firing off arrows and spells later, Hawke, Varric, Merrill, and Aveline were standing in the dark, musty cellars beneath Lord Kensley's mansion, sheepishly surveying the carnage all around them.

"I thought you said we _weren't_ supposed to kill anyone, Hawke?" Merrill said. 

"That was before the blood mage in the kitchens."

"He was very angry, wasn't he?"

"That's putting it lightly," said Varric. He scowled down at his boots and the lower part of his trousers. "That's the third pair this year! I'm starting to think you have the right idea, Daisy."

"You mean about shoes?"

"Exactly. Think of all the coin I could save if I just abandoned the concept entirely."

"I'm going to be writing up the report about this one for a week," Aveline said, with a long-suffering sort of sigh. "Best you all get going. I'll call in the guard to help clean this up and go through the rest of the estate. There's bound to be clues about what was going on here." She glanced at the skeletons and wispy remains of shades lying all around them. Her already stony expression somehow hardened and became even stonier. "Not that I'm entirely sure I want to know, after what we've seen here."

"Will we see you and Donnic at the Hanged Man tomorrow?" Varric asked her, on his way toward the stairs and fresh air that didn't smell of death and mildew.

"You know we'd never miss it."

Outside in the cool night air, they took a moment to catch their breath and gain their bearings. Merrill departed first, waving as she went. Varric had long since stopped paying protection fees whenever she left her house at night (for one thing, he'd seen firsthand that she could more than hold her own in a fight), but he still watched her go until she was out of sight.

"You know, Varric," Hawke said lowly, as he passed by and laid his hand on Varric's shoulder in a mimicry of a friendly pat, "If you're really worried about all that muck and grime, I have a perfectly serviceable bathtub in my bedchamber. You're welcome to use it anytime you like."

"Maybe I'll take you up on that kind and generous offer," Varric replied, before he could think better of it. "I take it this will be more of a performance for an audience than a private and relaxing bath?"

The look on Hawke's face was almost worth the sinking feeling in Varric's stomach, like he was falling. No, worse; like he'd already fallen, was already in so deep he'd never climb out again. Not with his woefully inadequate upper body strength and the fiery look in Hawke's eyes.

_Shit._

\---

Three weeks since their unfortunate little jaunt in Hightown. An eternity since Varric had managed to get through a whole conversation with Hawke without regretting having started it in the first place. He could hardly concentrate on his writing anymore. Passages about Hawke's prowess in battle tended to wander off into lengthy treatises on the gold-brown color of Hawke's eyes, or the strong outline of his jaw, and then Varric had to scrap that page and start over again. It wasn't supposed to be that kind of book.

"Well, are you going to invite me in? Or should I stand here looking pretty and batting my eyelashes at passers-by for the rest of the night?"

Varric glanced up at the sound of Hawke's voice from the doorway. He was lounging there, leaning casually with his forearm against the door. He'd changed out of his combat leathers and into a deceptively simple shirt and pair of trousers. If it weren't for the fine, tailored cut, he could have passed for a denizen of Lowtown. He still carried himself like one. Some habits died hard, and no habits died harder than the ones your survival had depended upon.

Setting aside his pen and the chapter he'd been working on, Varric crossed the floor and came to a stop just inside his room. He looked up at Hawke with raised eyebrows. "Batting your eyelashes? Has that ever worked for you?"

"Once or twice. You'd be surprised what lengths people will go to for a handsome man such as myself. Or yourself, if I may be so forward."

"Why don't you bat your eyelashes at me and we'll find out?"

Hawke was laughing as he came inside. The sound of it was hardly bearable these days, though that was an overly dramatic and melancholy thought if Varric had ever had one. He closed the door behind Hawke. For just a moment, he leaned with his hand flat against it, eyes closed. He let out a quiet sigh.

By the time he'd turned around, Hawke had already chosen to arrange himself as provocatively as possible in Varric's chair, lounging back with his legs spread wide and his arm leaning casually against the table. Just Varric's luck.

"Do you look at everyone who drops in on you like that?" Hawke asked mildly. Like it was nothing but an innocent question, and his voice wasn't dripping with honeyed suggestion. Varric had to give it to him. He knew how to play to his audience.

"That depends on how well I know them and what I want from them," he replied.

"You know me well enough by now, I hope," Hawke said. His lips had quirked into a slanted smirk. "What do you want from me, then? Everyone wants something in this city, and I always seem to be the one who gives it to them."

The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife, Varric might have written in one of his novels. Or maybe, the air was so charged with static that he would have sworn a storm was approaching, had he not known it was a cloudless night.

Hawke rose from the chair and approached him. Varric had to tilt his head back and crane his neck to continue to meet Hawke's eyes. He was tall, even for a human. It helped when Varric kept a bit of distance, but it seemed that Hawke didn't have _distance_ in mind, tonight. For a wild second, Varric thought Hawke might actually _do_ something. Something unthinkable, like bending down and kissing him. 

Ha, ha. Very funny. As if this was a shared delusion.

"Varric."

"Yes, Hawke?" He tried to sound innocent.

"Are you ever going to put your money where your mouth is and make good on this teasing you're so very fond of?"

"You don't think this is more a matter of putting my mouth where my money is?" Varric said, laughing nervously.

Hawke didn't reply. 

_Hawke didn't reply_ was never a good start to any passage in his book. It almost always signalled that something unfortunate was about to unfold.

"Hawke-" said Varric, about to excuse himself – and that, apparently, was enough. Was too much. Hawke's mouth was on his an instant later. Hawke's hands followed shortly after, seizing him by his coat. Holding him firmly, pressing him back. He stumbled. Thank the Maker for his rogue's reflexes. He didn't trip. 

Hawke broke apart from him. They stared at each other. Varric was keenly aware of his uneven breath and general state of dishevel. It was embarrassing; Hawke had barely even touched him, and he was already achingly hard and completely unfit for polite company. He'd always thought he was better at this. Pretty terrible at it, all things told, but better than this. 

He cleared his throat.

"I could go," Hawke said. The look in his eyes was inscrutable.

"And leave me hanging like this?" Varric said, without thought for consequence or future regret. He didn't care what happened after. He needed Hawke's hands on him again _now_. "I'd never forgive you."

"I'll stay, then."

Hawke came forward again and took Varric by the shoulder. Varric looked down at his hand, then back up to his eyes. He raised his eyebrows as if in challenge. Hawke slowly began to smirk. He wasted no more time in pushing Varric down against the bed. Dimly, Varric was glad he'd had the wherewithal to shut the door. Not that it would have been the first time someone had walked in on someone else mid-coitus in this sorry establishment.

As Hawke shrugged off his coat and knelt over Varric, he found himself wondering if this was how it felt to be a character in one of his own works. Not a rational actor, not someone who did things, but someone who was acted upon, to whom things were done. He couldn't imagine this was actually happening without some sort of divine intervention.

"Maker's breath, Hawke-" He chuckled warmly as Hawke began to deftly undo the ties on his trousers and, once loosened, slipped his hand beneath Varric's waistband. Hawke took him in hand – _Andraste_ , he had big hands – and thereafter Varric lost the ability for rational thought entirely.

\---

_Serah Tethras,_

_In anticipation of our next meeting, I have composed the following poem for your perusal and appreciation:_

_Your lips give me pleasure  
Beyond any measure_

_I shall eagerly await  
Your presence at my estate_

_To spend the whole night  
Until morning light_

_With my mouth on your cock  
You'll be calling out, "Hawke"._

_Your faithful friend,  
-GH_

\---

"Are we going to hear more about the sordid adventures of Lord Gareth and Serah Vance anytime soon?" Hawke asked. He was lying on his back next to Varric, his arms folded behind his head. They were both staring up at the ceiling in Varric's room. It was the same as it had always been. As worn, cracked, and smoke-stained as the rest of the Hanged Man. Exactly as Varric liked it.

"What, these little trysts we've been having aren't enough for you?" he said. He wiped sweat from his brow and made a face at his damp hand. His breath was still uneven from their recent _exertions_. He could already tell he was going to be sore, which wouldn't normally be a problem, but he was meant to attend a meeting of the Merchants' Guild that would last half the day or more – if he was lucky. They'd been known to drone on well into the evening. He didn't relish the thought of spending an entire day sitting in a hard stone chair right now.

"I was just wondering if I could get an advance copy. It might give me some inspiration."

"Trust me, Hawke, in this particular area, you're inspired enough."

"That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me. But I'm afraid it's time for me to go," he said, as he sat up and swung his legs over the edge of Varric's bed. "Drop by tonight, if you like. Bodahn said something about fish pie yesterday. Your standing invitation to join us for dinner still stands."

Varric shoved down the small and irrational but pressing voice in his head that wanted to protest at Hawke getting out of bed - where are you going in such a rush? It's perfectly comfortable here, let's lie in a while – and sat up himself, more slowly. Sighing, he went to find his boots. And his clothes. Andraste's furry beard, they'd managed to fling them everywhere in their haste last night. He found his trousers draped over a bookshelf and his coat lying in a pile near the door.

That evening – sore as predicted – Varric found himself in the Amell estate, slightly ill at ease. It wasn't that it was strange for him to visit. At this point, his absence would have been more remarkable than his presence. It was just that it felt that much more awkward, sitting in Hawke's library knowing just what he and Hawke had gotten up to the night before. And at least one night a week for several months now. It lent a certain quality to his conversation with Leandra after Sandal let him in.

"Have you actually been _publishing_ these?" Hawke asked, from his plush red armchair. His feet were propped on his desk. Varric's latest serial was propped open on his legs to a particularly salacious page. 

"Why, are you hoping for a cut of the profits?" Varric had taken a seat in the other chair. His belly full, he was swirling a glass of wine idly in his left hand and turning the page of the last installment of 'Hard in Hightown' with his right. He'd outdone himself in this one, if he did say so himself.

"Don't you think I should be entitled to a share? Being your muse is hard work."

"Hard work." Varric snorted. "I don't think you were working that hard last night, when my mouth was around your-"

"Hush, now, Varric, you're profaning the sanctity of my home with your naughty language."

"Since when have you cared about naughty language?"

"Since I turned over a new leaf and became an honest man. Just after lunch."

There was a beat of silence between them. Then they were both laughing until they were breathless. Hawke slapped the palm of his hand down against the arm of his chair, struggling to get himself back under control. 

Varric pretended to wipe a tear from his eye. "Garrett Hawke, an honest man. Now I've heard everything!"

"Tell me honestly, though, should I expect to start receiving fan mail? The letters I already get are disturbing enough. Did I show you the one from Lady Priscilla?"

"With the dried flowers and the hair?"

"That's the one."

"Please don't remind me. Some things are best forgotten."

"That little episode didn't make it into your book, then?"

"I'm not sure my readers want to hear about each and every awkward letter anyone ever sent you. There's a limit to how long I can keep my audience's attention, even with a story as enthralling as yours."

"We'll have to start doing more exciting things, then."

"I'm not sure I can take whatever passes for 'more exciting' with you, Hawke."

Hawke snorted as he turned his attention back to his reading. "You certainly took it well enough last night."

"Hawke said suggestively to the dwarf."

"Now you're just teasing. _Are_ you actually publishing these?"

Varric looked down at the page he'd turned to in 'Hard in Hightown', his laughter dying in his throat. It was a passage about Guard Captain Hendallen reaming out Donnen Brennkovic for his failure to follow procedure to the letter. He thought, idly, about all the times Aveline had bent the rules or looked the other way because it was the right thing to do.

"None of the ones that are true," he finally replied. Hawke was kind enough, or verging on drunk enough, to leave it at that.

\---

_Vance ached with desire the moment he laid eyes on Gareth, who had just come into the filthy Lowtown tavern where they held their clandestine meetings under the cover of a crowd. It was a terrible curse, to be inflicted with longing for his partner in crime. It only worsened with each job they did together. By now he could scarcely stand the tension in the air from the moment Gareth entered a room to the moment he left it._

_Even their few nights together had been more curse than blessing; they had sated Vance's curiosity, but awakened in him something he could not put to rest, try as he might. There were days when he thought of fleeing the city entirely. Surely if he started a quiet life somewhere else, he could escape this prison of his own making._

_"What are we up to on this fine evening?" Gareth asked. He'd brought two mugs of ale to the table, and not the nasty swill they served to the masses – he'd sprung for a more expensive variety. Vance accepted his drink gratefully. His fingers brushed against Gareth's as he took it, though he inwardly cursed his intentional clumsiness._

_"I have a mark, if you have the time. Are you in?"_

_"You know me," said Gareth, his mouth curving into a lazy smirk that Vance could stand to look at about as much as he could stand to stare directly into the sun, "I'm always in."_

_Shit, was Vance's first and only thought. He was already in so far over his head with this one, and falling further by the minute. Shit, shit, shit._

\---

"Watch where you're throwing those, Hawke," Varric said, laughing as Hawke sent a spurt of flame past him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from it. The walking skeleton it struck fell to pieces, bones clattering to the ground.

"I was careful," said Hawke. He shook his hand vigorously as if putting out a match, though Varric was fairly certain it was for dramatic effect rather out of any practical necessity. Hawke always had liked to show off.

"One of these days you're going to slip up, and I'm going to find out exactly what it's like to be a vegetable in a stew pot."

"Look on the bright side. It'll give you some new material for your writing," Hawke said. He rotated at his waist to send an arc of lightning in the opposite direction. Another three skeletons fell. "Ha! That's eighteen for me. Looks like you're buying today."

Sometimes Varric regretted agreeing to that particular arrangement, but he merely sighed, dug around in his coat pocket, and retrieved thirty silver. He tossed the coins at Hawke, who caught them deftly in midair. A small sacrifice to the altar of friendly competition, but no great loss in the end. He could win it all back at cards.

The other _arrangement_ he had with Hawke was a kind of torment so exquisite that he was surprised they didn't use it as an official method of torture, in countries that went for that sort of thing. Months and months of torment. If it was still a game, he was fairly certain neither of them were going to blink. 

Still. It could be worse. At least the sex was good. He couldn't complain in that department. And he trusted Hawke, in a fight and outside of one, and it wasn't like either of them were intruding on anything else. It couldn't hurt to enjoy himself a little bit. 

(Who was he fooling? He knew exactly how much it could hurt. But that was what he got, playing with fire. Burned, again and again.)

"Kidnapping victim saved, kidnappers dead, and our pockets heavy with gold. A fine end to a fine day," Hawke said later, as they descended the steps from the Hightown mansion where they had delivered the wayward noble son they'd freed earlier from the slavers and their skeletal minions. "Drinks at the Hanged Man?"

"I have other plans tonight, I'm afraid," said Fenris. He nodded to them before he parted, heading off in the direction of the decrepit ruin he called home.

"Aveline?" 

"Another day. Donnic and I will be..." She cleared her throat and looked away. "Another day," she said firmly.

Hawke turned back to Varric. "It seems we've been left to our own devices."

"So, drinks at the Hanged Man?" Varric asked dryly.

"If you're buying."

"My best friend a nobleman, and he still expects me to pay for his drinks. A scoundrel and a cheapskate."

"In all the time you've known me, have I ever claimed to be anything else?"

"Good point. I knew what I was getting in to when I rescued your purse that day in Hightown. Oh, that takes me back. How long has it been now?"

"You know, I've always wondered about that."

"Oh?"

"My reputation preceded me. You obviously knew who I was. You wanted me for your expedition. It seems a remarkable coincidence, that you just happened to be there right when a pickpocket decided to make off with my hard-earned coin. Almost as though it was entirely engineered."

"What are you accusing me of, Hawke?"

"No accusations. It's only an observation. A hypothetical, if you will. Hypothetically, if you were going to try to lure someone in to your little operation, how would you have done it?"

"All right. Well, hypothetically, if I wanted to impress someone of your, ah, caliber, I would have done exactly that. But we're friends, aren't we? We trust each other? How could you ever think I would do anything so underhanded as hire a pickpocket to _rob_ you. Imagine the scandal if it ever came out. Varric Tethras, esteemed author and member of the Merchant's Guild, a liar and an opportunist."

"Opportunism is hardly a sin, but we can talk about that later. I'll see you tonight, then. The usual time and place?" Hawke lifted his hand in parting as he turned to head back to the Amell estate.

Varric watched him go until he'd disappeared around the corner. His eyes – Andraste curse them – lingered on Hawke's broad shoulders, his backside.

"Well... shit," he muttered.

\---

**Interlude: ???**

\---

_Dear G,_

_I hope this letter finds you well, serah. Allow me to express my distinguished sentiments of respect and admiration, and my sincerest wishes for your well-being and good fortune._

_Just kidding._

_Last week, a friend of a certain Nightingale acquaintance of yours dropped in for a friendly chat. She wanted to know about you-know-what and you-know-who, but it sounded like something big was brewing. You know me. I spun a tale for her. Most of it was even true._

_I figured you wouldn't want anything to do with whatever's going on, but you might want to lay low and keep your head down for a while. Just in case. In the meantime, I'm on my way to some kind of meeting between the rebel mages and the templars about brokering a truce. I've had just about enough of that to last me a lifetime, but this wasn't exactly an optional request, if you know what I mean._

_I hope things are calmer on your end. I hear Junior's off on some wild adventure with the Wardens. The way he tells it, it sounds like he's going to ride in on a griffon and single-handedly save the world from the darkspawn. Mind you, I'm not counting him out entirely. Stranger things have happened._

_Don't do anything too exciting without me. I'll write again when things have calmed down a bit._

_-VT_

_P.S. Don't worry, I left out the juicier parts when I told the Seeker about you._

\---

**Act 2: Skyhold**

\---

"So," Hawke said, as he set down two overflowing mugs on the table. Varric winced as the foam spilled down the sides, but readily reached for one all the same.

"So?" he said, lifting his eyes to Hawke's dubiously as Hawke slid into the seat across from him.

"Here we are."

Varric sighed. "Here we are." He tipped his drink against Hawke's, causing more of the foam to slosh over the lip of the mug.

They drank in silence for a time, listening to the other conversations around them, the raucous laughter coming from Bull's corner of the tavern. Finally Varric glanced up at Hawke again.

"Can I ask you something?" he said.

"As long as it's not too embarrassing or personal. I value my privacy, Varric. I couldn't possibly stand to have my secrets spilled. Could you imagine how it would feel to have your entire life on display for the whole world to peruse at their leisure?"

Chuckling, Varric set his mug down, more at ease as Hawke fell into his old routine. "Come now, Hawke, you know me. I'm nothing if not trustworthy. My lips are sealed."

"What did you want to ask?"

"Why are you here?"

"What kind of question is that? I'm here because you asked me to be," Hawke replied.

"That can't be the only reason."

"Why not? You followed me to, oh, let's see, the sewers, the top of a frigid mountain, at least twelve blood mages' lairs, an equal number of caves filled with bones, and a dragon's nest. And those were on the good days."

"That was different. I had a stake in everything you did in Kirkwall. This isn't your fight."

"You don't think I have a stake in stopping any of this? After the hand I had in starting all of it?"

"I think none of this shit was your fault, and you don't owe anyone a damn thing."

"Yes, well. I still want to help." There was something in Hawke's eyes, the way he talked now. A bitter, sharp undertone that hadn't been there before. Before Corypheus, before the Chantry, before the Gallows and the rebellion. Some things changed a man forever. If anyone in Thedas knew that better than the two of them, Varric had yet to meet them.

"That's all?" he said, when Hawke didn't elaborate.

"That's all."

"If you say so."

"I do say so. Now, where were we?"

Maker, what he would have given to be in the Hanged Man right now. Listening to all their friends bickering, enjoying – maybe a bit of a strong word, given the sort of ale they served in Lowtown establishments – their drinks, feet propped up on the dirty tables.

But, instead, here he was. In a castle at the top of a mountain in the ass-end of nowhere, surrounded by nothing but ice and snow and _nature_ as far as the eyes could see. Kirkwall might as well have been on one of the moons, it was so far away, and he didn't know if he'd ever see his friends again. All he had left was Bianca and his own fraying wits.

And Hawke. No matter where he went or how much the world fell apart around him, Hawke.

"... and that qunari, Bull, is his name? He told me that in the Qun- ... Varric? Are you even listening?"

"What? Oh, sorry."

"And to think, here I am, spilling out my heart and soul to my best friend in the world-"

"There, there. I'm sure you'll get over it. You can even cry on my shoulder later on, if you want." And there it was again. Varric's inability to help himself, rearing its ugly head for the thousandth time. He winced, but trying to cover up his flirting with an even worse joke probably wouldn't make matters any less awkward.

Hawke didn't seem fazed, at least, but Hawke hadn't seemed particularly fazed by the dragon in the Bone Pit, either. "Are we still doing this?" he asked. 

Varric feigned shock and innocence. "Doing what? I'm not doing anything."

"That's exactly what you say whenever you're about to do something."

"You're the only one who can see through my mask, Hawke."

Hawke snorted and took a drink. His hand had come to rest next to Varric's over the table. A little bit too close to be anything but deliberate. Just far enough away for plausible deniability.

Still doing this, then. He should have known better than to think Hawke would ever back down, even to save his own life. After all, Varric had written the book on him.

\---

He shouldn't have followed Hawke back to his room. He knew it; Hawke knew it.

He shouldn't have left the tavern with Hawke. He shouldn't have walked up the stairs behind Hawke. He shouldn't have closed the door behind them. He shouldn't have slid the lock into place. He definitely shouldn't have started untying his sash. He shouldn't have looked up when Hawke laid his hand on Varric's cheek, and he shouldn't have tilted his chin up to lean into the kiss.

Shouldn't. There was a word he hadn't found a use for in a very long time. It certainly hadn't stopped him before. It wasn't about to stop him now.

Their lovemaking, if it could be called that, was of a different sort that night. Not frantic, but desperate, drawn out – more like two lost souls clinging to each other amid a storm than a pair of friends having some good old-fashioned fun. Varric groaned at each and every thrust of Hawke's hips, not caring if anyone could hear, not thinking about anything but Hawke, here, now, in his bed and inside him. Hawke's lips trailed down his neck and met his shoulder. Varric cursed and dragged him up into a searing, seemingly unending kiss. Hawke responded by pressing him down harder against the bed.

When it was done, they lay side-by-side in the dark. Varric listened as Hawke's breathing slowly evened out. It was a comforting sound. The kind of sound that had his eyes misting up as he could almost _taste_ it – the sense of normalcy, being home at last. The taste of Hawke's mouth after a night of drinking and merriment. The sound of drunken louts outside the window, tussling about some pointless dispute or other. The lingering scent of woodsmoke and sour ale on the air. But home wasn't Kirkwall, wasn't the Hanged Man, it was-

_Fuck._

\---

__

_"It's been a long time, hasn't it?" said Vance. He was perched on the wide windowsill of Lord Gareth's bedchambers in his Hightown estate, his weight distributed for perfect balance even as a breeze blowing off the sea threatened to dislodge him. A lifetime of plying his trade in the undercity and the back alleys had given him fine reflexes and an affinity for nooks, crannies, and ledges of all sorts._

_"Get down from there. You'll fall and break your back, and then someone will have to clean up the mess," Gareth scolded. He gave no indication of whether he was glad to see his former associate and lover. He was at his desk, pouring himself a glass of fine Antivan brandy of a particularly famed vintage. The sort a nobleman could acquire, certainly, but also the sort that one might find being sold in the seedier shops, whose goods came from undisclosed sources._

_"Come now," Vance laughed. He hopped gracefully from the windowsill to the marble tiled floor of the bedchamber, his feet nearly silent even in his boots. "Surely you're happier to see me than that."_

_"After how you left?" Gareth still hadn't looked up from his liquor. "I would have thought our time together merited at least a farewell."_

_"You're the one who left, as I recall. Besides, I'm here now, aren't I? Let bygones be bygones."_

_"Would you care for some brandy, then?" Gareth asked mildly. He filled a second glass and held it up. The fine crystal glinted in the candlelight._

_"Is that all you have to say?" Vance said, even as he crossed the room to take what was offered to him. It was the courteous thing to do. "After all those times I shared your bed?"_

_He was against the wall before his breath left his body. He'd forgotten Gareth's reflexes, so finely trained for a man of high birth. It seemed an age he was suspended there, Gareth's hands pinning him, before the glass struck the floor and shattered, its contents spilling across the veined marble._

_"What would you like me to say to you?" Gareth asked, his breath hot on Vance's cheek, his lips poised perilously close to a kiss. Where Gareth's body pressed against Vance's, he felt Gareth's desire, hard and straining against his trousers. His own responded swiftly in kind._

_"I don't really care if you_ say _anything at all," he said coyly, squirming slightly beneath Gareth's touch._

_"You thieving little rat. Here to steal from your former partner, now, are you?"_

_"That depends, serah. What are you holding that I might find to be of value?"_

_"Nothing you've not already taken," Gareth said. With his voice so low, Vance couldn't tell if it was meant to be a joke or to goad him into something, or perhaps –_

_But no. He was no lovestruck young pickpocket, wide-eyed and ready to hand his heart over to the first pretty nobleman who batted his eyes in his general direction. He'd loved before; he'd been burned before. When he looked up into Gareth's eyes and saw naught but fiery desire, the words that had rested at the tip of his tongue these past years stayed right where they were. Unspoken. Unheard._

_Their lips met. Foolishly, Vance gave himself over once more._

__

\---

"Well, that was an experience I can't say I'm keen to repeat anytime soon," Varric was saying to Hawke, as he emerged from the Fade rift and back onto solid ground. He frowned when he didn't receive the answer he'd expected – a quip about nightmares, or washing all the green slime off their boots, or some other ridiculous remark that would surely have helped lift the weight from Varric's heart. "... Hawke?"

Cassandra and Dorian had both gone through before him. They were standing in front of him, both staring at the rift with expressions that brought a stab of cold dread straight to Varric's heart. All around them, the battle raged on, but Varric had no eyes for any of that. A demon could have struck him down where he stood, and he would hardly even have noticed.

He turned around. His heart beat faster. Time seemed to slow down. He remembered another moment like this. One he'd immortalized in his book – looking up, feeling like his eyes were traveling in slow motion, horror blooming in his chest at the eerie, deathly red glow that had settled over Kirkwall. The rush of sound that had reached them a moment later. The bits and pieces of Hightown raining down around them. Chaos and fire, screams and death. Even though he'd known exactly what he would see, he hadn't been able to look away. Maybe if he had, the terrible sight of it wouldn't be burned into his memory.

It was the same now. He knew what he was going to see. The act of turning around and actually seeing it was only for show. 

The space behind him was empty. His heart thudded to a stop. Hawke hadn't come through. Neither had the Inquisitor. Varric had been so carelessly confident Hawke would be right behind him, he hadn't even considered any alternative. But Hawke wasn't there. They'd left him. He'd left him. For a moment, all Varric could do was stare, stunned, at the swirling green depths of the rift.

A mad, desperate, and overwhelming feeling overcame any remaining good sense he had left. He reached for Bianca and a handful of bolts. He didn't care what happened to him. What difference would it make, if he walked out of here and Hawke didn't?

Fingers closed around his wrist as he lunged for the still-open rift.

"Have you gone mad?" Dorian said. He was holding onto Varric's arm with a surprisingly strong grip, for a mage. "Going back in there would be suicide, and a distraction for the Inquisitor, no less. Give them time!"

"Andraste's ass, Sparkler, if you don't let me go-" 

The rift flared so bright they both had to shield their eyes. When it had dimmed enough for them to look back, Hawke was standing there, stumbling and unbalanced as if the rift had violently spat him out. The battle hadn't slowed, wasn't ending. Inquisition soldiers and demons and Wardens, all struggling for their lives around the broken, ruined fortress. But silence had fallen over Varric and his two companions as they stared at Hawke.

"That wasn't nearly as fun as my dreams always assured me it would be," Hawke said. "Varric! You made it. Don't worry, the Inquisitor should be along any moment now."

Varric's mouth fell open, but no words came out. Hawke came closer, and closer, until he was standing in front of Varric, towering over him as he always had. Varric stared up at him. For all the words he'd ever written when he set pen to paper, for every silver-tongued lie he'd ever told with his fingers crossed behind his back, there was only one he could think of right now.

"Garrett." His fingers had closed around Hawke's wrist.

"You do know my name!"

If he hadn't known Hawke so well, he wouldn't have caught it: the sound of _deflection_ , the wild and reckless slant to his smile, the desperate look in his eyes. Humor as distraction. He gave Hawke a critical look, about to call him on it, when-

Another flash of green, and the Inquisitor came stumbling out of the rift. He held up his hand, and the rift closed behind him with a rush of noise and light. With that single act, the battle ended abruptly, the demons vanishing back to the Fade as if they had never taken form at all. All eyes turned to the Inquisitor. Hawke stepped forward, pulling free from Varric's loose grip. Varric let him go.

\---

Before they all parted ways, they met at one of the crumbling gates. The night was well on its way to morning. An icy, biting wind had started to blow across the empty expanse of the Wastes. Varric shivered as he looked out over the black nothing that lay all around them.

The Inquisitor hung back with Cassandra and Dorian while he went to say goodbye to Hawke.

"It seems like we're always doing this," said Hawke. His tone was light. Like nothing was wrong, like they could carry on just like they always had.

There were a number of ways Varric could have responded. In kind, for example. With a joke and a grin. He could have shouted. He could have walked away. He could even have told the truth.

"Tell me something before you go," he said quietly, instead.

"All right."

"Were you planning on staying behind back there?"

Hawke laughed, which was as good as confirming the worst of Varric's suspicions. Spend enough time playing Wicked Grace with someone and you learned all their tells. "As if I could leave my trusty dwarven friend behind."

"I'm not kidding, Hawke-"

"The Wardens are preparing to leave, I'm afraid. It's time for me to go. I'll write as soon as I can." Hawke held out his hand. He didn't seem especially bothered by his own refusal to answer the question. The flippancy was the worst part of it. Varric could hardly stand to look at him.

"Fine. If you want to play it that way." Varric pinched the bridge of his nose before dropping his hand back to his side. He almost didn't take Hawke's hand, but at the last moment he reached out and gripped it. "Just... keep safe out there. You know I- you know Junior would never forgive you if you went and died on him."

"I'll do my best. Try not to fall through any more rifts, or get eaten by demons, or whatever else happens around here."

Varric held onto Hawke's hand a moment too long for old friends clasping each other's arms in departure. They looked at each other, and neither of them said another word. Maybe there were just none left. As Hawke's fingers slipped away from his grasp, he turned around abruptly. He had to keep reminding himself not to glance over his shoulder as Hawke walked away. It was easier said than done, but Varric was nothing if not committed to his character. He'd even managed to muster a weary smile by the time he reached the others.

"Varric, are you-"

"Fine, fine," he said, waving his hand at the Inquisitor. "Shouldn't we be going? I don't know about everyone else, but I don't want to spend one more second in this Maker-forsaken desert than I have to."

"You can say that again," said Dorian. "I'm not sure if I'm ever going to get this infernal Fade goo out of my clothes after this."

"Fade... goo?" Cassandra wrinkled her nose. An expression Varric would have wanted to commemorate in written form, once upon a time. He was too tired for it now.

He had a quip on the tip of his tongue. Something about _the third pair of boots I've been through this year_ , or _you should have seen my clothes the time Hawke and I fought blood mages on the spring equinox in Kirkwall_. That would have set Dorian off, and then he and Cassandra would have bickered halfway back to Skyhold, Varric joining in at key moments to keep it going while the Inquisitor merely watched in apparent amusement.

"Let's just get out of here," was all he ended up saying, in the end.

\---

The pounding headache building inside Varric's skull did nothing to help his mood when he heard loud footsteps approaching his room in the Skyhold keep. He'd had too much to drink and not enough sleep the night before. And the night before that, probably. And he'd been staring at the map of known red lyrium locations in the Emerald Graves for so long his eyes felt like they had gone permanently crossed. And if none of that was enough, there was an unwelcome letter from an old _acquaintance_ lying unopened on his desk. He didn't need to read it to know there was nothing but more trouble waiting for him inside. He rubbed at his temple, scowling at whomever had decided that whatever it was couldn't wait a few more hours. Or days.

Preferably days.

He'd managed to set aside the map and the letter by the time the footsteps were right outside his door. He winced. He'd have recognized the sound of those particular footsteps anywhere. He should have recognized them sooner, if his senses weren't so dulled by his hungover and aching brain. The very last person he wanted to talk to right now was-

"Varric," said Cassandra, as she threw open the door with her fist, "This ending, how could you-"

"How could I what, Seeker?" He was aiming for coy, but he couldn't muster anything more than weariness. He saw the book in her hand and felt like he could wilt right down to nothing. He was too tired for this. No one was paying him enough for even half of this.

"You know what I mean! Your 'Stolen Heart' series, the last chapter- how could you allow Lord Gareth to simply leave Vance behind? After everything they had been through together. After their last night together, to walk away as though none of it mattered at all. For Vance to not even tell Gareth how he felt, it is an outrage, a- a scandal!"

There was a time when he would have had a joke up his sleeve in response to that. Something about scandals and thievery, and fools who entrusted their hearts to others while expecting nothing in return. It would have been a good one. Hawke would have laughed. He couldn't assemble the pieces of it together into anything resembling a punchline right now.

"Yeah, well," he said finally, "That's life for you. Not every story has a happy ending."

"Will you at least write another chapter?"

Varric ran his fingers through his unwashed hair, then dropped his hand to his face and ran it over his unshaven chin. He needed a bath. And a few days' sleep. And to _go home_. Not that there was any hope of that anytime soon. "I don't think so. Not this time."

\---

**Interlude: Weisshaupt**

\---

_Varric –_

_I hope this letter actually finds you, well or not. Apparently it takes a while for news of the south to reach the Anderfels, but I hear the Inquisition has defeated Corypheus. Good. I always hated to leave a job unfinished. It does tend to make letter-writing slightly more awkward, though, seeing as I've no idea if you're still with the Inquisition, and 'a mouthy dwarf who hates the outdoors' isn't the clearest of destinations for a messenger crow._

_I made it to Weisshaupt at last. I've been here a week now, in fact. The journey was a tale I'm sure you'll be regaling everyone with someday, but suffice it to say that I was glad to finally sleep in a real bed. Or what passes for one around here. They certainly like their mattresses hard and their blankets thin. Builds character, I suppose. Wouldn't want Wardens who are afraid of getting a poor night's rest._

_You wouldn't like it here. It's cold and dry and dusty. There are snakes. One of them was in my boot yesterday morning._

_I can't say very much right now, but there's something going on. You remember that feeling I'd always get when we were about to stumble into a den of blood mages and iniquity? It's like that. Don't worry about me, though. I'll think of something. You know me. I always do._

_I'll try to make it back to Kirkwall when I can. Until then, keep safe. No jokes this time. I mean it. I'd hate to survive all of this only to find out it was for nothing._

_Your eternally loving but eternally weary best friend,  
GH_

\---

**Act 3: Kirkwall**

\---

The stack of papers on Varric's desk was a daunting, ever-growing annoyance of the daily variety. He sighed and rubbed at his forehead, smearing ink above his eye and then scowling about it when he realized. Everyone wanted something, and everyone wanted it now, and no one had the decency to say what it actually was. He used to enjoy playing this game, before it was his actual job.

He signed his name to a piece of official correspondence with Wycome and placed it into a smaller stack of completed papers for the Seneschal and his staff to sort later. If only this was the sort of thing Varric could hand off to someone and be done with it, but he'd chosen to inherit this mess. He could complain about it all he wanted, but he meant to see it through.

The hours passed at an unhurried snail's pace. Varric felt each and every tick of the clock in the corner in his bones. His hand started to ache from the number of times he'd signed his name. He almost missed the Merchants' Guild. At least the paperwork there had been lighter.

Early in the afternoon, when the sunlight was falling intrusively across his desk and he was starting to think about going to close the curtains, a knock sounded at the door. He scowled and shaded his eyes against the brightness as he looked up.

"If this can wait, Bran, I'm still working on the last set of letters you-"

"But I have such an important petition to make to the Viscount," said Hawke. "It really can't wait. Might I beg an audience?"

For all his fabled prowess in the realm of speechcraft, Varric could scarcely get his tongue or his voice to work. He stared wide-eyed at Hawke – _Hawke_ , standing there in the open doorway, loosely holding on to his favorite staff, travel-worn and visibly weary but very much _present_ in front of him. "Hawke, you-"

"Yes, Hawke. Me."

"You-" Varric really wasn't used to being this much at a loss for words. He took a deep breath and tried again. "You didn't say you were coming. Your last letter was- shit, how long ago now? I thought you were still in the Anderfels." 

"Three months ago, I know. I've been a terrible friend and a truly unforgivable correspondent. Now that it's out in the open, let's put that behind us and move on to more important matters. Drinks, for example."

Though it was hardly the right response, Varric couldn't help it. He started to laugh. "Not wasting any time, then? Right back to the way things used to be."

"I don't know if I'd say that. Unless you were hoping we'd be falling into bed together within the next two hours or so." There was a strange look on Hawke's face. It was twisted and wracked with something Varric couldn't quite place, even after more than ten years of seeing every shade of every possible emotion writ plain across Hawke's features.

Varric hated himself with an intensity that could probably rival the brightness of the sun as he forced a smirk onto his face and responded in kind. Was he really so pathetically predictable? "If that's what you're after, you could always come by the Viscount's quarters later and we could-"

"Don't you think it's time that we put an end to this little charade?"

The words hit like a dragon's spiked tail to the chest – a sensation Varric longed to not be so familiar with. Struck with yet another uncharacteristic and embarrassing loss for words, he scrambled for humor; the last refuge of the hopeless. "Well, Hawke, you know what they say about-"

"We've had our fun," Hawke said, interrupting, "But this dalliance of ours has gone on long enough, hasn't it?"

"Whatever you say, Hawke," he said. He tried to sound jovial, but failed miserably. He should have expected this. He _had_ expected this, eventually. Wasn't there a saying about it – something about too much of a good thing? He'd always known the ending of this particular sad story.

What he hadn't expected – wouldn't have written, because it was preposterous and contrived and utterly contrary to the cold, unforgiving reality they all lived in – was Hawke's mouth against his. Was Hawke dropping to his knees before him to kiss him, his hand coming to seize Varric by his collar and hold him in an iron grip the likes of which would have put a qunari warrior to shame. 

Was for Hawke to pull back and look him in the eyes and say, without a hint of sarcasm or amusement, "I'm an idiot, Varric."

Reeling, Varric steadied himself against Hawke's shoulder. "I think I'm going to need more of an explanation than that. Try setting the scene before jumping straight to the conclusion."

Hawke chuckled, but there was a tightness to it, like he was choking back an urge to sob at the same time. "I'm an idiot. I've been in love with you since that first atrocious letter I wrote. Maker's breath, Varric, I didn't know what to say. It seemed like as much of a joke as the rest of my life, and you never gave any sign of feeling the same way. Or so I thought. It's funny, the ways we can fool ourselves. It's been killing me, all these years of sharing your bed and then leaving the next morning. Acting as though I didn't mean every word I ever had to say on the matter."

Without waiting or hesitating or deflecting the way he might have done before everything went to shit, Varric grabbed Hawke's shirt and dragged him forward into a second kiss. This one was just as desperate as the first. Breaking it seemed unthinkable. Letting Hawke walk away had been unthinkable. He kissed Hawke until he was breathless and as though it was his last act in this world before passing on to the next.

Only then did he pull back to look Hawke in the eye. He started to chuckle weakly. "You _bastard_. Ten years! Ten years I've been mooning over you like a wilting damsel in a cheap romance novel, and you walk in here after months of silence and say I could have had you all along? It figures. I always was the worst at writing my own story."

"As if this is my fault any more than yours!"

"What, so this is the one thing you won't blame yourself for? You'll take the fall for Blondie, throw yourself at a demon to make up for your father's mistakes, but this one falls on my shoulders?" Varric regretted it immediately, but it was too late to take the words back. The folly of a quick tongue. He could talk himself _into_ a corner just as easily as he could talk himself out of one.

"I-" Hawke closed his mouth and looked appropriately chastised. "Fair point."

"Hawke-"

"No, you're right. I was reckless at Adamant, and I shouldn't have been. At the very least, I should have remembered that wherever I went, I was always going to be dragging you down with me. It wasn't fair for me to think I could shoulder any of my burdens alone. I wouldn't have let you go off and drown yourself in guilt."

Varric searched Hawke's eyes. Since he wasn't sure what he was looking for, he couldn't say if he'd actually found it. "All right, tell me, then. Where exactly is this coming from?"

"I've had a lot of time to think, trekking all the way to the Anderfels and back. Lots of time to get some perspective, to truly find myself on a great journey. You may have to write another book about it."

"Fine." Varric threw up his hands at Hawke's show of contrition, exasperated. "Fine! I forgive you."

"Good man."

"Ah, ah. Not so fast. I never said you're getting away with it for free."

"Why, of course, serah. I am nothing if not generous." Hawke pressed his hand to his chest and bowed, mimicking any one of the many petitioners who streamed in and out of Varric's office at all hours of the day.

Without a thought for the treaty he'd left half-unsigned, Varric took him by the arm and marched him outside. 

"Bran," said Varric, poking his head into the Seneschal's office, "I'm taking the afternoon off."

"But-"

"Take care of my paperwork for me, will you? And make sure you let Serah Colbourne know that I'm not going to make our meeting this evening."

"But-"

"No buts, Bran! I'm entrusting the office of the Viscount to you for the day. Think of it as an opportunity."

Without waiting for an answer, he took Hawke by the wrist and led him away. Hawke put up no resistance.

\---

Their lovemaking – and Varric was quite confident now that it _could_ be called that – was of the same kind it had always been. Funny how he saw it so clearly now. The wool he'd pulled over his own eyes, the lies he'd been telling himself for years. Hawke's hands held him in exactly the same way they always had. His thumbs pressed the same marks into Varric's hips. He kissed the underside of Varric's jaw with the same determined reverence. It had been there from the very start, if only Varric hadn't been so determined to write himself out of the story.

"Garrett-" he groaned.

He felt Hawke grinning against his skin and sighed, exasperated.

"Don't say it," he said fondly, his fingers tangling in Hawke's hair as he gently tousled it. 

"But-" Hawke's voice was muffled against Varric's shoulder. He kissed it again when Varric didn't immediately let up.

"It's a tired joke, Hawke. You can do better."

Hawke snorted. "As if your jokes are never tired."

"My jokes are classic. There's a difference."

"You keep telling yourself that, and we'll all keep rolling your eyes whenever you bring up your chest hair."

"I have it on good authority that you like my chest hair."

Varric gasped as Hawke shifted his weight in response, putting it all on one hand so he could slide the other up Varric's bare chest without interrupting the movement of their bodies. His fingers stayed there, spread out in a wide arc as he met Varric's eyes. "Whose authority would that be?" he said.

Varric smirked up at him. "Take your guess." 

"I'm not sure you should be discussing my views on such things with the Divine, Varric. That seems like a scandalous topic."

"Really? Because-" He bit off into another groan as Hawke rolled his hips at _just_ the right moment, and then forgot the punchline of the joke entirely. "Bastard," he said weakly.

"And proud of it," Hawke murmured, low near Varric's ear. He pressed another kiss to Varric's jaw. Neither of them spoke for quite some time after that.

\---

By the time they came up for air, the sun had nearly set. The last rays were gleaming through the half-open window across from Varric's massive, four-poster bed. Far more space than any one dwarf needed, but maybe just enough to share with a human who was a little bit larger than life.

His lips tugged upward as Hawke opened his eyes. "I could get used to this, you know," he said softly.

"Varric said suggestively to Hawke, waggling his eyebrows in a comical fashion that resembled an eel wriggling its way down a murky Kirkwall canal."

"You know what, Hawke? Don't quit your real job to become an author just yet."

"Is 'Champion of Kirkwall' a real job? I was never quite clear on that, actually."

"They did always seem to want you to do them favours."

"But not for money, which tends to be the hallmark of an actual job, as I understand it."

"I'll give you that." Varric lay back, staring up at the canopy. It didn't have quite the same effect as lying beside Hawke beneath the ceiling in his former room at the Hanged Man, but it was close enough. 

"So," he said, as jovially as he could manage, "Is this going to be a very lengthy visit? You might want to check in on Aveline and Merrill before you go. I don't think they'd forgive me if I kept you all to myself."

"I thought I might stick around, actually. Help finish rebuilding the city. It seems only fair." Hawke had turned his head so his cheek was against the pillow as Varric spoke. Their eyes met.

Trying to play off his relief as nonchalance, Varric fought a grin. "Oh? And here I thought you were done with Kirkwall for good."

"Don't you want me to stay?"

Varric took a moment to look at Hawke. Just look at him. _Really_ look at him. To see the way he'd changed, over the years – the graying hairs amid the black, the lines on his face that didn't fit on the hero's visage Varric had always described in his book. He reached out to fondly brush his thumb over the crease beside Hawke's mouth. It readily tugged upward against Varric's touch.

"Shit, Hawke, I never wanted you to go anywhere in the first place," he said, his voice gone embarrassingly rough and gravelly. He cleared his throat.

"I know."

"Don't get me wrong. I'm glad you didn't have to deal with the whole demons and Fade rifts and ancient elven gods thing. I would have dragged you to Weisshaupt myself if it meant getting you away from the Inquisition. And the Inquisitor's people were good, but they weren't... well, they weren't us." Damn, were his eyes really starting to well from that alone? He was getting maudlin in his old age.

"I know," Hawke said again. He took Varric's hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. "I know." 

A few hundred other things went unspoken in the space between those words, but Varric didn't need to hear any of them. 

They lay together for a while, comfortable in silence, in the manner of all old friends. Hawke brought Varric's hand to his mouth and brushed his lips idly against his fingers. Varric's eyes followed Hawke's every move, warmth blooming and spreading throughout his whole chest.

Finally, Hawke leaned over and abruptly planted a kiss on Varric's lips. Varric felt it when he smirked.

"Will I be moving into the Keep, then?" Hawke asked. "Do I get a stipend? Is there a uniform I can wear so the whole city knows we're fucking?"

Varric planted his hand flat on Hawke's chest to stop him from initiating another kiss, so he could actually answer. "You have an estate. And I thought you didn't want to be Viscount. I recall you being very specific about that."

"I'm not going to be Viscount. You're the Viscount."

"Well, you're not exactly cut out for Viscount _ess_ , if that's what you were thinking."

"Can't you just pass a writ and declare me your official partner-in-crime?"

"Oh, don't get that look on your face," Varric said, laughing. "I'm a serious man now, Hawke. I'm not going to leverage the power of the Viscount's office just so you can build a statue of your dog in the Gallows, or whatever else you can think up."

"Really? But it would be such a handsome statue. Not even a small one? What if we put it in front of the Hanged Man? We could call it art and charge coin for viewings. We'll call it 'taxes'."

"Only if you can get the Guard Captain to sign off on it."

"You used to be fun."

"I used to be accountable to my tab at the Hanged Man and a group of irritable surface dwarves whose asses were glued to their seats at the Merchants' Guild, not an entire city state. It was a lot easier to get away with things back then. But do me a favour and don't tell anyone about my good intentions. I still have a reputation to keep."

"Varric Tethras, an upstanding citizen. The great tragedy of our time. But no, to answer your question, I'm not angling to rule Kirkwall. Maker knows why anyone with half their senses remaining would want this job. I was thinking more of a... well, is there an official term for a Viscount's concubine?"

Varric just raised his eyebrows.

"No?" said Hawke. "Ah, well. We'll think of something."

\---

_Seeker,_

_I trust you'll find the enclosed a far more satisfying conclusion to the tale of Lord Gareth and his trusty roguish companion._

_-VT_

_P.S. I wouldn't be caught reading this in polite company, if you know what I mean._

_You're welcome._


End file.
